A Tendering in the Storm (Change and Cherish Historical)

  Sometime late that fall, people began calling the stockade Fort Willapa, and a post office was even established there with John Giesy as the postmaster. He wore so many hats, that John. Christian wore many hats too. He’d been a legislator for less than year. My brother Jonathan wrote that Oregon had indeed held its first election of state officials. Next year for sure, Oregon would be a state, or so Jonathan said. He didn’t invite me to come there in his letter, but it was clear he felt Oregon the better of the two places.

  A few of the Willapa women sent some of their weavings down to Oregon for a harvest festival at Gladstone, not far from Aurora. Mary suggested I bake a special Strudel for the event. I scoffed. “By the time it arrived it would be either hard as a rock or worse, covered with a hairy mold they’d have a hard time passing off as a frosting.”

  “Maybe we should hold our own fair,” she said.

  But there weren’t enough people for such an event in Willapa. There probably never would be. That very thought made me feel disloyal to Christian, and I apologized to him out loud.

  Mary and Elizabeth and Boshie made plans to go to Aurora, though. It was to be Mary’s first visit. “Karl Ruge is going with us, but Jack’s staying so he can look after things.” Her face was flushed with excitement about the trip. “He’ll come by here too. I’ve asked him to do that, so don’t be rude to him.”

  “I’ve never been rude,” I said.

  “You can be … hard,” she said.

  I wanted to ask why it was that when women said what they wished that they were considered “hard,” but when men said what they thought they were just wise and authoritative, a quality to be admired.

  “I’d really rather Jack didn’t come by,” I said.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I just … he looks at me strange. Like I was some sort of exhibit at a fair,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re just not accustomed to having a man show interest. Maybe you’re suffering a bit of lovesickness. You pursued Christian. He never really had a chance to woo you.”

  I turned to her. “Lovesickness? I’m so far from such a thought. And Christian chose me, he did. That you’d—”

  “People do marry for things other than love, you know,” she said. She looked away, acted as though my table needed dusting, and she did that now.

  “Mary, I … I don’t know what to say to such strange thinking.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what is, Emma. Most women who are widowed do remarry, and not all of them are so fortunate as to fall in love before they do it. Think of your children.”

  “They’re all I do think of.”

  When Mary returned from her visit to Aurora she was full of stories about plum orchards that had been planted and how a new railroad was running a short distance along the Columbia River in the Washington Territory, and that in Oregon City there was a school that women attended and that she’d seen an advertisement for people making daguerreotype portraits, for a fee.

  “Daguerreotype portraits. They must have been lovely,” I said.

  “Much too expensive for the likes of us. And probably too worldly,” she added in a whisper, “though I’d love one made of Elizabeth.”

  I hadn’t shared with her my plans to draw portraits. She might think that was too worldly also. Neither did I tell her about my limited interactions with Jack Giesy while they’d been gone. Jack had come by, tipped his hat, and acted the cocky gentleman.

  Andy warmed to him, running right up to Jack as he swaggered into the yard. I kept my face emotionless but I could hardly deprive my son of time with the man who’d helped him say good-bye to his father.

  I let them stay outside. It was October and the air smelled fresh as mint. Jack showed him how to make a whistle from a bird carcass Andy handed to him. Then Kate begged to go outside too, as she squatted beneath my legs, pushing my skirts aside. She ran to where Jack and Andy sat beneath a cedar tree, her little face so close to what Jack worked on that her eyes must have crossed.

  Jack laughed and patted the cedar boughs on the ground beside him, and she sat. Andy raced toward me when the whistle was finished and the sound he made was that of a hawk flying high overhead. I stopped my butter churning and picked up Baby Christian, the forlornness of the whistle haunting. Kate shouted, “Me too, me too!” and Andy ran back and gave her the whistle, though she couldn’t make the song.

  Christian watched with careful eyes all this activity while I held him, standing in the doorway of my cabin. I wondered what he could see from that distance. Could he feel the dry air? The vine maple had turned red already, announcing the coming of autumn. I would welcome the rain.

  “Come over, Mama,” Andy shouted. He motioned with his arm.

  There’d be no harm in that, I supposed. The grass was crisp as I walked across it to where Jack sat, to where Kate had returned the whistle to him telling him it was “lame.”

  “Lame,” Jack said. “There’s a new term for something broken.”

  “She sees the goat sometimes limping,” I explained. “We have to take a stick or stone from his hoof.”

  “Let’s see if we can heal it,” Jack said and blew on the whistle to Kate’s delight. She studied it and then she grabbed for it. Andy grabbed back and Kate started to cry, a high-pitched wail. “You best stop, little lady, or you’ll get yourself in trouble,” Jack said in a stern voice. A little too stern, I thought. It just made Kate cry louder.

  “I’ll handle my children,” I said, bending to take the whistle. “Andy, go get your sister a drink of water.” He hesitated, then accepted that what I recommended must be the correct course of action.

  “You spoil the girl,” Jack said.

  “She’s considerably younger than her brother and can’t solve problems without bringing attention to herself,” I said. “You have no children. It’s hardly your place to comment.”

  “Ja. Not my place,” Jack said. “But your boy will lack proper respect for himself and your daughter will neglect her role of silence if their mother’s words aren’t balanced by a good man’s words to guide them. Their mother too.”

  “If you came here to tell me how to behave, I’d say it was time for you to leave.”

  “Maybe I could chop that stack of wood for you,” Jack said. “That’s the reason I came. To help a widow out.”

  Furious, I ignored him. “It’s all right, Kate,” I said. She’d calmed a bit. “When you’re older you’ll make the whistle work.”

  “Andy go.”

  “I know. For now, you go drink the water your brother’s getting for you.” She gave in reluctantly and I saw myself in her eagerness to do all things that her older brother could.

  “About the wood?” Jack asked. “I maybe could chop you up a winter’s supply.”

  He made offers with a ready escape when he said “maybe could.” If I turned him down he could say, “I only maybe offered,” and if I accepted, well, then he had the upper hand. If I took something from him, he’d want something in return. He had obligation written all over his high forehead, wrapped into that lazy, almost leering grin. In another time I might have flirted back, just for fun, but not now, not with Jack.

  “The work is good for me,” I said. “A good change from churning butter.”

  He cocked his head in that way he had. “They always said you were a stubborn woman,” Jack said.

  “They?”

  He stood up and when he did, he stood too close. I could smell the soap that had scrubbed his skin and see the pores in his chin. I shifted Christian into the crook of my other arm and stepped back.

  “You know who ‘they’ are,” he said. He stepped away, leaned against the cedar tree, picked at his cuticles. “The relatives. They say it with some admiration, though,” he added.

  “I doubt that.” Baby Christian squirmed against me. I put him onto my shoulder and patted his back. He burped and the smell of sour milk filled the space between us. “There’s little room for the admiration of women in this co
lony.”

  “Not true, not true. Look at Helena Giesy. Never married, just gives her life to Bethel. She’s coming out to help Keil, did you know that? And we all think Louisa Keil is a saint. She never makes demands or questions. Mary Giesy is a generous woman too, taking me and Karl Ruge in, treating us like family though we’re two old bachelors. So you see, women are noticed.”

  “For what they do,” I said. “Not for who they are.” He squinted at me. “And you are hardly an old bachelor.” I wished I hadn’t added that last, but his characterizing himself as someone like Karl annoyed.

  “I’m not? Well, that’s good news. Must mean I’m young enough to chop that wood for you before I go.” I shook my head. “You don’t want me to go?”

  “No. I mean ja, I think it’s time you left.”

  “Is there anything else I can do while I’m here?” Now he lifted an eyebrow and with it came that half leer, eyes twinkling. His legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest. So self-assured.

  “You’ve treated my children to a pleasant hour. I’d say that was more than enough. The rest I can take care of myself.”

  He jerked himself forward off the tree trunk, an act that startled me and caused Christian to begin to cry. The children had returned, Kate carrying a tin cup and Andy now chasing at the goat. Jack moved in a little closer and patted Christian’s back. Anyone passing by might think it the perfect family scene.

  “It’s not easy raising three children on your own, Widow Giesy. It is a man’s duty to tend to the widows in his family. You and I’ve grown up with the colony’s wishes about widows. Christian would want that tradition carried on. You know that. A woman is meant to be with a family, with a man to shape her life.” He squatted and picked up dirt and rubbed it between his hands. “Pitch,” he said by way of explanation. He looked at me then. “I’ll return to the oyster beds before long and won’t be so available to … help you out. So you might think of tasks you’d like done before the rains come hard. I can oblige. I’m as decent a man as you’ll find in these parts with all sorts of hidden talents, lots of time to give. I rarely sleep. Mary will tell you. And I’m a patient man despite what you may think of me.”

  “I never thought you weren’t patient or anything else,” I said. “You flatter yourself, Jack Giesy, that I think of you at all.”

  He laughed. For a moment he looked less like the wolf of the three little pigs’ fame and more like Mary’s little lamb. Can he turn on that boyish grin at will? Apparently so, for he added, “Oh, you think about me, Emma Giesy. I bet you put that little egg I made for you in a nice prominent place in your house. Will you let me see where it sits? Or are you too frightened that once I’m inside your home you might not get me out?”

  “It was a gift for Christian. And I should thank you for it. I do now. I hadn’t known you made it, just that you delivered it. And nothing about you frightens me,” I lied. “I’m just cautious about what sorts of critters come into the house.”

  I went inside, brought the children in with me, then seethed in silence as I heard him chopping wood that he must have known I’d one day burn.

  After he left I chided myself for not asking him about his drawings. But to do so invited an intimacy I wasn’t prepared for. An artist’s work exposes, and one wishes to do it on one’s own terms. I might have asked him what he thought about selling portraits, but I didn’t want to know his opinion enough to risk his rejection of mine. Maybe with daguerreotypes being sold now even in the streets of a small town like Oregon City, there’d be no need for my making drawings. Maybe photographic likenesses would be preferred.

  Once the children were in bed at night, though, I did light Christian’s lamp and take out my charcoal and the last of the papers I had to draw on. I ironed the damp paper flat, then filled in the sketches, made the ferns detailed, darkened the bark so it looked almost real enough to pick up. I hadn’t heard anything from my parents about sending me money or supplies, or coming to this land. They probably didn’t realize what courage it took to make the request.

  My days were filled with diaper changing, though Kate had trained herself. The first time she successfully found the privy of her own accord we were at Fort Willapa at the last service I thought we would attend before Christmas and the truly heavy rains came. Kate told Christian’s youngest sister what she needed, and Louisa took her out. Kate came roaring back in and announced to everyone that she’d “wee’d all alone.” She carried the word “all” out as though it was a long song. John was giving the sermon that day. He stopped short, turned his head toward the women’s side of the building. He smiled at her and then the rest all laughed. I loved him for that, for noting that a young girl’s early success should be shouted to the world.

  Christmas came and then the New Year which brought treasures from my family. The joy I felt with the gifts surprised. They sent wooden toys for the two older children and a silver rattle for Christian. I realized they must have begun gathering up gifts and sending them as soon as they learned of the baby’s birth in order to get them here at this special time.

  For me, my parents included charcoal and paper as gifts. The latter was crinkled from the damp weather and the days it took for it to reach me. Still, it would be my beginning, and I hadn’t had to ask a Giesy or a colony member for this start.

  My father wrote nothing about coming either to visit or to stay, though. So, that was the way it would be then. Whatever I could do with the drawing would be my next step toward independence. I would have to do this on my own. I’d keep my children with me, and perhaps we’d travel together to make my sketches. Never mind that my parents weren’t going to be able to make the journey or did not wish to meet their grandchildren. There were good reasons for them not coming, I was certain.

  I’d always wanted to live on my own, and so I would. I might even sell this property. It was in my name. I could sell it and use the money to begin my newest life. Why not do that? Why not leave this place behind?

  The thought of leaving what Christian and I had built together left me breathless.

  Here, I was as close to independence as a widow with three children living in a communal colony could come. The money received from any sale would eventually be used up. I couldn’t take the risk. I felt like a harlot accepting the work of others on our behalf, but I refused to be like other widows who married someone they didn’t care for because they couldn’t make it on their own. I would find ways to pay back Christian’s family, I would.

  And if Andy hadn’t gotten ill, I might well have made it work.

  15

  Emma

  The River of Transport and Hurdle

  Andy’s fever spiked and waned for days. He coughed so hard he seemed to bring his insides out. I kept him cool in baths of agrimony, the water turning yellow from the plant we dyed wool with back in Bethel. Here I used it to make him teas to help the vomiting, but it did little good. I put a mustard plaster on his chest, went through my shelves to see if there was anything I could give him that might help. Catnip tea did nothing but make him sleep. His round face poured into tiny hollows at the cheeks. His lips quivered and cracked. Little ones had no reserve against a storm like this, I decided. His face sank pale with pain.

  He must have picked it up at the Christmas gathering with all the others. I remembered now hearing Joe Bullard and the fence viewer, Mr. Vail, coughing. Children played in spite of runny noses, their little hands lifting doughnuts from the table, then putting some back for those more heavily sugared. I tried to keep Andy and Kate from the ailments of others. But it was Kate’s birthday celebration, too, and I hadn’t wanted to deprive her of what I thought would be worthy attention.

  For all the good that did. Her grandparents were kind to her, giving her a cookie and patting her on the head. The aunts commented on her pretty curls, but it was Andy and Christian they doted on that day, commenting on Christian’s reddish hair and Andy’s stance with his hands on his hips, just the way his father used t
o stand. My daughter didn’t garner much interest.

  My present to her of a special covered basket made of tulle pleased her. “For treasure?” I nodded. I could have as easily given it to her at home. A good reason to stay the winter closed up in our cabin, alone.

  But my insight came too late. Now the January rains poured themselves out like wretched tears on our cedar-shake roof, leaks forming in places where the shakes were saturated by the constant downpour. Mornings when it didn’t rain we could barely see the cows in the half barn for the fog. I hated leaving Andy even for a moment, but the cows had to be milked. I’d come back in, wash his soiled clothes, and hang them at the rafters, but they took days to dry in the dampness, even with the fire burning hot. At least I had plenty of chopped wood, thanks to Jack Giesy. I gave him that grudging thanks.

  I brought the goat into the house to stop her mournful bleating and so I could milk her. I cleaned after her, but nothing seemed to stop the stench of the mix of her Dreck and Andy’s illness.

  I knew I should go for help but I couldn’t take Kate or Christian into the weather and I couldn’t leave Andy alone. With this discouraging rain, they probably took to heart my constant insistence that I needed no help.

  Midweek I stopped milking the cows because I didn’t want to be away from Andy. Taking all three of the children to Mary’s seemed overwhelming and unsafe, but I had to do something. I had to get additional herbs or get him to the doctor. There was only one thing to do.